


A Fool's Proposal

by Infinite_Monkeys



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Crack, Crossdressing, Crossover, Dean Winchester Is Very Amused, Gen, Humor, Sam Winchester is Not Amused, That One Norse Myth, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16667719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinite_Monkeys/pseuds/Infinite_Monkeys
Summary: A giant has Thor's hammer. Fortunately, this has happened before, and he has a plan.Set Post Supernatural Episode 8x02 (the one with the angel tablet auction) and after the Avengers (2012).





	A Fool's Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Just a ridiculous bit of crossover fun.
> 
> Just to be safe, I don't own Marvel, Supernatural or any of the characters, which is definitely for the best. Enjoy!

A giant has Thor's hammer. Fortunately, this has happened before, and he has a plan.  
  
When the hammer first goes missing, the first thing Thor does is try to summon it back. After all, while he believes he knows the spot on the sidewalk where he left it (and that spot is currently empty), he isn't particularly good about paying attention when leaves it lying around. When it returns at his summons and no one else can lift it, there doesn't seem to be a point to keeping careful track of its whereabouts.  
  
The second thing he does is panic.  
  
The third thing he does, when he finishes panicking, is walk, not fly, back to Avengers tower. His friends are intelligent and well-versed in the ways of Midgard. They will be able to help him get to the bottom of this, to figure out where his hammer has gone and how to reclaim it.  
  
It takes nearly a week for Stark to track down the whispers of an auction, longer for them to discover its location. The event is by invitation only, hosted by no one they recognize, but the space and flawless anonymity speak of great power and influence. The man they eventually track down and divest of his invitation is neither mortal nor unimpressive, and though it feels cowardly, the sight of his eyes is enough to make Thor glad he agreed to have Stark purchase his ticket to entry rather than take it by force.  
  
When they arrive, the auction house is in ruins, the treasure for sale scattered, and Mjolnir is nowhere to be seen. Thor nearly screams in his frustration, and poorly-controlled lightning arcs from his back to snap against the crumbling walls.  
  
Stark finds and retrieves the mechanical eyes that keep watch over the building, and once they are repaired they all watch as a rather small giant stalks the ruins and claims Thor's hammer. Mjolnir makes no protest at the handling; either the giant is worthy or, and this seems more likely, someone has stripped the Allfather's spell from her. The thought makes Thor shudder. It takes a great deal of power to peel away such enchantments, and he doesn't like to think about what sort of person or thing could have done so.  
  
As they continue to watch, the giant calls on lightning to smite the small, unpleasant man he had been arguing with. Something catches his attention a scant second later and he jogs from the room, Mjolnir still held tight in one fist.  
  
“That's the end of it,” Stark announces, and Thor clenches his fists because it's enough.  
  
Thor now knows that this giant has his hammer, knows his appearance and his face.  
  
He will track the giant down, and when he finds the thief who took his rightful property, Thor will be ready.

* * *

  
  
Dean is wearing his widest, most amused grin, which is how Sam knows everything is about to go wrong.  
  
Sure enough, his brother drops a heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing his lips together but not quite managing to hide the tremors of badly-concealed laughter. “Hey Sammy,” he says, tilting his head towards the far corner of the bar. “Looks like you've got an admirer.”  
  
Sam groans before he even looks over. Of course he'd noticed the man in the corner seat. It would have been impossible not to. When he glances over, though, Dean is right; the man is very intentionally eyeing him, staring him down with an intensity that passes unnerving and approaches deeply unsettling.  
  
It might have been terrifying under other circumstances. His stalker is enormous. The man's muscles stand out with a definition usually reserved only for the cheesiest of action figures, a fact that is immediately noticeable given the lack of sleeves on his dress.  
  
Because yes, the man staring at him is wearing a dress. Not just any dress, but a large, extravagant wedding dress, complete with veil that doesn't quite hide his Nordic features and full beard. It is... a pretty dress, complete with lace and tule and clever tricks of the seams that give it an overstated elegance completely at odds with its inhabitant.  
  
Because, in addition to the elaborate costume, the man has already drank his way through three enormous glasses of beer, and the edges of the veil have fallen victim to his ungraceful manner of drinking.  
  
The man notices him looking and smiles, a wide, terrifying smile that does nothing to contradict Sam's current assessment of his sanity.  
  
Sam looks away quickly, fixing his eyes on his drink half to avoid his not-so-secret admirer and half to pointedly ignore Dean, who is sniggering.  
  
When he looks up again a few minutes later and the man is still there, still watching him even as he messily devours a plate of hot wings he must have ordered at some point, Sam stands and walks out, leaving his half-finished beer sitting on the counter.

* * *

The plan is Loki's, devised decades ago for a different giant.  
  
It is very lucky that the situation now mirrors that of the past so closely, because there is no way Loki would help him now. Even if he were not currently safely corralled in Asgard's most secure prison, Thor and his brother haven't exactly been getting along well since their last disastrous trip to Jotunheim. Or before, surely, even if Thor hadn't seen it; Loki had, after all, been the one to disrupt Thor's coronation, to get him banished. Surely that must say something about the state of their relationship.  
  
He pushes those thoughts out of his mind and focuses on the task at hand, which at the moment consists of trying to walk in overly uncomfortable shoes that give the illusion he is taller than his true height. Apparently it is common for Midgardian brides to wear such things, though they must do so with more grace than Thor himself, judging by the lack of broken necks. A less durable man might have suffered serious damage by now.  
  
The Black Widow coaches him with a surprising amount of patience, watching his stumbling steps with impassive eyes and offering feedback in a level tone of voice. Only the very corners of her mouth betray her amusement, which is more than Thor can say for his other teammates.  
  
Hawkeye pounds on his chest, still coughing. “Tasha,” he says weakly when he finishes. “You gotta warn a person about something like this.” His breath hitches and he goes into another fit of spasmodic hacking. “Aww, coffee.”  
  
Natasha smiles just slightly. “Most of it ended up on the floor.”  
  
He looks down, making a chagrined face. “This is three kinds of awful. I'm choking to death, my coffee is empty, it ruined a good laugh, and now there's a mess. Wait, that's four. This is four kinds of awful.”  
  
“Hang in there and I'll play you a sad song,” Natasha says, and he scowls harder.  
  
Thor, for his part, is so intent on keeping his balance that he steps in the puddle of spilled coffee and his feet go flying out from under him. He hits the floor, hard. He's fine. The floor is less fine.  
  
Stark winces from where he's leaning up against the counter, documenting the attempt with his phone. “Are you sure this will fool him?” He asks. “No offense, but you don't look much like a woman.”  
  
“No offense is taken,” Thor says sincerely. “I myself doubted this tactic when first it was presented to me. It shall work because giants have very poor eyesight. Trust me; I speak from personal experience. Thrym never guessed that anything was amiss, and he sat right beside me for most of the wedding reception.”  
  
“I'm not sure that dude was a gia—”  
  
“He shall suspect nothing, believe me. You shall soon see what I mean.”  
  
Stark raises his hands in surrender as Thor pulls himself to his feet. Or tries to—a chunk of the counter snaps off as he grabs it and attempts to haul himself upright. He grimaces in apology.  
  
When he makes it back upright, he returns to his practice. After all, this time he won't have his brother's illusions to make up for any shortcomings in his act, no silver tongue to smooth over any blunders.  
  
He's confident, though, that all will go according to plan.

* * *

Sam's not used to being towered over. Usually he's the one doing the towering.  
  
Of course, it feels a bit like cheating that the man is wearing _six inch heels_. There's a lot of wobbling involved, but so far dude hasn't fallen over, and he's almost impressed. His center of gravity is probably taller than a good portion of the population at this point. Sam would probably be impressed if he wasn't too busy being concerned, and annoyed, and deep down in a place he'd never admit to Dean, just a bit spooked.  
  
After all, this is the third place this dude has showed up in two weeks. It's a bit much for coincidence, especially since the two towns they've visited are not that close together.  
  
“Are you certain you will not let me purchase you a drink?” the man bellows, and he winces. Everyone is staring. He doesn't blame them, but he wishes they'd stop.  
  
“I'm good,” he says, and he steps around him to go stand by Dean. Given the heels, they should have a couple minutes of privacy before he can turn around and waddle his way into earshot.  
  
“Did you check the lore?” he asks urgently, voice low.  
  
Dean's face splits in a wide grin. “Yeah, nothing in there about cross-dressing bodybuilders with a crush on you.” Sam glares, and he raises his hands. “Sorry man, I don't make the lore. It's not my fault you're irresistible to—”  
  
Sam shoves him and he stumbles back, but he bites off his next reply because stalker guy has made his way back over here and is standing a bit too close.  
  
He takes a couple of casual steps away, picks up a menu from the bar to make it look natural, and leans in towards his brother. “I dunno Dean,” he says, “this doesn't feel weird to you?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Not every weird is our kind of weird.”  
  
The man takes another step towards them and bumps into a table. The table, which is actually surprisingly large and sturdy, goes tumbling over, spilling its dishes and food onto a shattered pile on the floor.  
  
The man swears in a language that sounds like old Nordic and picks the table up off the ground with one hand, swinging it around and almost hitting the man who had had been sitting there before setting it down on the other side.  
  
“Or it could be our kind of weird,” Dean says, staring.  
  
“Yep,” Sam agrees.  
  
“Back to the lore?”  
  
“Back to the lore.”  
  
They sneak out while the man is helping to clean the mess by lifting a table in each hand, holding them high above his head while a waitress sweeps up the debris.

* * *

  
  
“How goes the hunt for hubby number two?”  
  
Thor can tell he's doing a terrible job of keeping his unhappiness off his face, but he can't quite bring himself to care. “It goes poorly,” he complains. “I do not understand. I have used every bit of advice the Lady Widow has given me, and yet I feel no closer to regaining Mjolnir than when I started.”  
  
“You know,” Stark says, “maybe it's because he's not really a—”  
  
“I have made eye contact at every encounter,” Thor continues. “I have made offers to purchase alcoholic beverages. I have asked questions about his life. I have even offered up the number of my cellular telephone on several occasions, and yet I seem to be making no progress.”  
  
“Maybe you just aren't his type,” Stark says.  
  
Thor eyes him. “How do you mean?”  
  
Stark looks suddenly nervous. His eyes flick back and forth, as though he is searching through words to find the ones he wishes to use. “You know,” he says at last. “People just have preferences. Some guys like shy girls, some like them loud, some like them six foot seven and built like a linebacker and some... don't.”  
  
“So you are saying,” Thor strokes his beard thoughtfully, “that when I try again I ought to use different approaches, that I might find the preferences of this particular giant?”  
  
“That's not exactly what I—”  
  
“Thank you!” Thor beamed. “That is most helpful. I shall keep it in mind.”  
  
“Uh, sure,” Stark says. “Don't mention it.”

* * *

  
  
“Here,” Sam says, slamming down a book. “I think I know what's going on.”  
  
Dean pulls the book closer, peering at the illustration of the enormously muscled man in a winged helmet swinging a hammer. “Thor? You think this is Thor?”  
  
“It fits,” Sam says. “Look, in mythology there's a story where Thor and his brother Loki dress up and pretend to be beautiful women after Thor loses his hammer in a bet. It was traditional for the Vikings at the time to exchange weapons as a part of their wedding vows.”  
  
“And you have Thor's hammer,” Dean finishes. Sam nods. The hammer is in Baby's trunk, and has been stashed with their other weapons since the auction. “Well, Sammy, looks like you've been hit on by a little-g god. How's that feel?”  
  
Sam grimaces. “We're still gonna have to take care of this,” he reminds his brother. “Every one of the old gods we've encountered so far has been bloodthirsty and dangerous.”  
  
“True.” Dean sobers. “So do we know what kills Norse gods?”  
  
“Mistletoe,” Sam says, tapping the relevant passage in the book.  
  
“Then let's go spread some holiday cheer.” Dean grins, and slaps Sam on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

* * *

  
  
It takes almost another week before Thor shows up again. This time he waits quietly off at the edge of the bar, drinking in a more subdued, quieter manner. Sam approaches him, and he visibly brightens, his entire face lighting up with an impressive smile.  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, “think we could talk outside?”  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” he rumbles, and nearly knocks over the barstool as he stands. He catches it at the last second, steadying it and himself together before pulling his hands away slowly as though to make sure that they both stay standing.  
  
Sam ducks into an alley and Thor follows, glancing around in mild confusion when they stop by a dumpster. “So,” he starts awkwardly. “I kinda couldn't help but notice you've been following me around.”  
  
“Indeed,” Thor agrees. “I—”  
  
Whatever he's about to say is cut off as Dean steps behind him, lunging forward with the stake of sharpened mistletoe. Thor turns in alarm, starting what probably would have been a futile attempt at blocking the strike. Instead, he trips on his shoe and falls over on top of Sam, and they both go to the ground in a tangle of long limbs and tule. Dean's stake stabs the empty air and he growls.  
  
“Don't move!” The shout is commanding, voice almost familiar, and it's coming from behind Sam. He looks up to find Dean backing up slowly, hands raised, and he goes still, stopping mid-trying to extract himself from the awkward position in which he'd fallen.  
  
Thor pushes him aside and stands, with some difficulty, next to the voice, which is attached to a man who, despite his casual clothes, is very obviously a government agent. The government agent is holding a gun and pointing it at Dean, which is probably why he looks so nervous.  
  
“Look,” Sam says, raising his own hands. “We don't want any trouble.”  
  
The government agent only snorts in response. “That's what someone who does want trouble would say.”  
  
“Why are you here?” That, surprisingly, is Thor. He doesn't sound upset that his secret agent buddy is here, only curious.  
  
“Definitely not taking pictures of this,” he gestures expansively to Thor and dress with the hand not holding the gun, “for `Tasha. Nope, that's not the reason I'm here at all.”  
  
“Did you get any good ones?” Thor asks, apparently completely recovered from the part where he was almost stabbed thirty seconds ago.  
  
The agent's lip twitches. “A few.”  
  
“Can you send them to me?”  
  
“Sure thing.”  
  
“Um, excuse me,” Dean says, “do you mind not pointing that thing at me?”  
  
Agent shrugs, but doesn't lower the gun. “I mean, you did just try to stab my teammate. That doesn't give me warm fuzzy feelings.”  
  
“Well, in our defense, he's a monster,” Dean says casually. Thor frowns. The agent frowns. Sam frowns, but probably for a different reason, unless the other two are frowning because their brothers say stupid things that will probably get them shot.  
  
“That's a very unkind thing to say,” Thor says mildly.  
  
“Look,” Sam says, trying for tactful because he knows Dean won't. “It's just that in our experience, the old gods tend to be a bit...” violent, unstable, dangerous. Maybe he isn't better at this tact thing than Dean. “murderous.”  
  
“You mean like stabbing people with big sticks?” Agent says pointedly. He lowers the gun, and both brothers let out a breath, but he doesn't put it away just yet.  
  
“We mean like worse than that,” Dean says.  
  
There's a beat of awkward silence. “Nah, Thor's cool,” he says. He glances at Thor. “Current fashion sense notwithstanding.”  
  
“Do you have any idea what these guys _eat_?”  
  
Agent shrugs. “Based on my observations? Poptarts, mostly.”  
  
“I want my hammer back,” Thor says suddenly.  
  
Dean snorts. “Yeah, we guessed that.”  
  
“Can I have it back?” he asks hopefully. Agent throws him a look, and he adds “Please?”  
  
Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks at Sam. “We'd have to know you're not planning on running around and smiting innocent people with it,” Sam says in his best ‘I'm being very reasonable’ tone of voice. On unspoken agreement he and Dean both start walking to the front of the restaurant where Baby is parked. Thor and Agent trail after them.  
  
“I would never,” Thor swears. “It is my sacred duty to guard the small weak mortals of this realm from danger.”  
  
“Wait,” Dean says, “isn't this the same guy whose little brother tried to take over the world a little bit ago?”  
  
Thor gives him a level shrug. “Has your brother never done anything with which you disagreed?”  
  
“He's never invited an alien army to New York,” Dean says pointedly. Sam elbows him in the ribs.  
  
“Dean,” he mutters, “we started the apocalypse.”  
  
Dean grunts in acknowledgement and unlocks the trunk. Mjolnir is there, laid out among the rifles and salt and gasoline and machetes and demon traps and holy water and...  
  
Agent raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything. Sam fishes Mjolnir from the trunk, and as soon as he grasps the handle a faint crackle of thunder sounds in the distance. Thor fixes it with a look that is equal parts hungry and pleading.  
  
He looks Sam straight in the eye, holding out his hand. “Please? I love my hammer. When I throw it, it comes back to me, it allows me to fly, and it helps me control the lightning so that Stark's engineering lab is not destroyed whenever I lose at Mario Kart.”  
  
Sam's gaze flickers back over to the government agent. “And you're _sure_  he doesn't eat people,” he says again, watching carefully for any signs of deception.  
  
The man raises his hands, a clear ‘I wouldn't touch that with a ten foot pole’ gesture. “Nope. Believe me, that would put a strain on our friendship, what with me being a people.”  
  
Sam meets Dean's eyes, and he nods once.  
  
“Fine,” he says at last, and hands over the hammer. Thor's sad ‘you just stepped on my puppy’ expression melts into an unfairly endearing ‘kid who just got a present’ expression, and he tosses the hammer from hand to hand, grinning wildly.  
  
“Thank you my friends!” He laughs and starts _spinning_  the hammer like a propeller, then jumps and takes off into the clear blue sky.  
  
The government agent flinches and covers his eyes.  
  
“Thor,” he shouts, “you probably shouldn't fly in a skirt!”


End file.
